


A Short History of Nearly Nothing

by puella_peanut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 17:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21103367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_peanut/pseuds/puella_peanut
Summary: And when he murmurs, What is it, have we gained? he is answered,What is it, have we lost?(Or, America in ten parts through the eyes of the world but mainly Russia: from colony to country, comrade to cold war—and all the way back again from the stars.)





	A Short History of Nearly Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> i am _not_ a historian as you will tell upon reading; i simply had nothing to do today, and therefore proceeded to spend that time in the company of sentient piles of dirt.
> 
> Come talk to me on [my tumblr](https://puella-peanut.tumblr.com/) anytime!

_And I am still not getting what I want_

_I want to touch the back of your right arm_

_I wish you could remind me who I was_

_Because every day I'm a little further off..._ —Astronaut: A Short History of Nearly Nothing, Amanda Palmer

.

.

.

  
**i.**  
  
From afar, the Tsardom of Russia recognizes the conception of a new country; the earth expands beneath the continents, and the heavens constrict over the clouds, and history turns its hourglass over to a new hour, waiting to time the era of another age.  
  
The World chases the sound of footsteps that have yet to be, sailing off to the West where the sun has changed its course, rising like dawns of possibility that steal the flames of the old world to light the new.  
  
But the Tsardom of Russia anticipates the map of stars and skies the wind is churning over to brand new constellations, soon to carry a foreign heartbeat from the West on its wings to pound like a cavalcade of supernovas across the miles—and he thinks perhaps, that this new country will hold the world in his bones.  
  
For he will be made of contradictory things, this one: the smooth salt of foreign seas, rough woods born of familiar shores. Land skinned brown and black, red and white—people much the same. Both arrogant and humble, welcoming and hostile; he will have sunshine in his hair, and shadows in his blood.  
  
So, this is how it goes between the Tsardom of Russia and the new country: one searches from between the far reaching endeavors of his Emperor, the Eastern expeditions of an empire claiming their share of cartography on a nation that has yet to be, and the other accepts the visits in his own way; riding out from the freesailing storm of fable and myth to be minted to the hard currency of papers and politics, a patchwork world woven from the past legends of men, into their future possibilities.  
  
And when he dreams, _What shall I become?_ he is promised,  
  
_ Everything, and all at once._  
  
**ii.**  
  
From afar, the Russian Empire discoverers that the infant colony is reaching through the cradle of foreign control and plucking the stars out of his Father's ruling skies to sew to an idea—striping the outlines of a blueprint for a nation to rise, and a history to map.  
  
The World wonders what to make of this precocious creature who has learned how to stand before he can even crawl, ready to betray the man who created him, ambition decades ahead of the father who gently soothes his cries while cruelly smothering his freedom.  
  
But the Russian Empire recognizes that rebellion remains the earliest language learned of revolution, and resent has a habit of turning colonies into countries—and he thinks perhaps, he knows what the first words issued from this infant will be.  
  
For he is made of gallant things, this one: infantry lines of barefoot resistance, starving defiance fashioned in the necessity of hope. Loyalty—already a selfish, cunning thing—steals in his name a gathering of protests and patriots; an eventual army pledged solely to his cause. Forged by a stubborn anvil, he is resilient like steel, gentle as a knife—brilliant and untouchable like the stars.  
  
So, this is how it goes between the Russian Empire and the infant: one encourages from between the chinks of his Tsarina's political maneuvering, the armed neutrality of naval blockades, and the other accepts the support in his own way; rocking himself from the cradle of colonialism and onto the groundwork of constitution, liberation conscripting him from nameless to nation.  
  
And when he muses,_ I will become the greatest,_ he is indulged,  
  
_That will be a wonderful and a terrible undertaking._  
  
** iii.**  
  
From afar, Imperial Russia witnesses the toddler filling in the craters of his splintered land, the confederacy of division upsetting the delicate scales of union—growing bones aching with their first fractures of battle, crippled footsteps resounding globally with the illness of internal anarchy.  
  
The World turns its back on this injured one, who stands alone balancing two broken halves of a bitter whole in either hand, struggling to fight back together what is being fought apart.  
  
But Imperial Russia perceives that though domestic strife is the soil of many lands, and conflict the path it paves, there are those who are capable of mastering civil unrest instead of being enslaved by it—and he thinks perhaps, that this toddler will win the war he wages against himself.  
  
For he is made of willful things, this one: perseverance gnawed into his bones, whittled deep into his marrow with every notch of challenge flung his way. Tenacity, the language of conviction: made tangible on rolled knuckles, the sharp grunt of determination slung between the refrain of gritted teeth, while fathoms below stormy eyes, sunk like treasure—resolve pulses like an uncut jewel.  
  
So, this is how it goes between Imperial Russia and the toddler: one consoles from between his Minister's lone urging of a unified nation, the common enemy of political flotsam creating ripples of comradeship in the waters of war, and the other accepts the sympathy in his own way; fidgeting with the compass of his country, that clockwork ticking of a constitution—resetting it neither towards the direction of north or south, but to a destination of unity, the antipodes of partition.  
  
And when he sobs,_ I never knew it would be so heavy to hold,_ he is reminded,  
  
_ A nation is an enormous burden to carry._  
  
**iv.**  
  
From afar, the Kingdom of Russia regards the child when he is bestowed his lady-queen; a powerful, regal Mother with a crown reaching to the heavens, her lamp burning out from sea to shining sea—lighting the way for tomorrow to discard the shadows of yesterday dragged onwards by today.  
  
The World releases its population unto the doorstep of this welcoming host, hundreds of colors of lives ready to be dyed to the shade of one nationality, the fabric of thousands of languages knitted together under the anthem of one name.  
  
But the Kingdom of Russia observes that for many, the future is a reflection that wears only one countenance or perhaps none at all—and he thinks perhaps, that when this child searches that looking glass, neither will appear, as he will see countless faces gazing back instead.  
  
For he is made of patchwork things, this one: a lineage pieced and sewed together from leftovers shed by others, a new history cut from the shared bolts of old cloth. He borrows the scrapped pieces of all—hardships and hopes, despairs and desires—collecting them as a raven does with his treasures. He is a magpie in his nest; he is an alchemist of another kind.  
  
So, this is how it goes between the Kingdom of Russia and the child: one contributes from between the pogroms and poverty and political unrest of his Tsar's rule, the enduring gifts of a peoples only bent, not broken, and the other accepts the presents in his own way; unwrapping them from their huddled shapes of foreignness, molding them into familiarity—polishing them from the bronze of a rusting land into the newfound gold of his own.  
  
And when he laughs, _Only I can make them shine this way!_ he is cautioned,  
  
_Perhaps, but for how long?_  
  
**v.**  
  
From afar, the Russian Republic watches as the boy dresses in the armor of a thief for his first appearance on the stage of worldwide warfare—daring to help steal back the jewel of triumph from between the trenches of empires that have long been polishing its worth to the priceless carat of victory.  
  
The World scoffs at this unfashionably late toy soldier, finally wound up as things appear to be winding down, an outsider kept up past hours of the haphazard jive of his own history to interrupt the practiced waltz of another.  
  
But the Russian Republic remembers that global combat is the ballroom where nations come of age, war simply being the final casualty off the calling card of conflict—and he thinks perhaps, that this boy has long planned to be invited to this arena of masters.  
  
For he is made of inquisitive things, this one: curiosity, the temperamental mistress that should have smothered him in his cradle, has instead indulged his aspirations and nurtured his insolence. Those vices of brazenness and brass that have strangled the lineage of his fellows have chosen only to play at virtues in his—this uncultured peasant who once forced a king to abdicate; this arrogant heir who seeks to usurp the old world in favor of the new.  
  
So, this is how it goes between the Russian Republic and the boy: one hints from between the overthrowing of his Tsar, the external and internal betrayal by defeat, his empty allegiance to fill, and the other accepts the suggestion in his own way; smoothly stepping forward as the other steps back, for war, the strange coming of age of their kind, has long been fitting him to the tailoring of battle, the jagged cut of success.  
  
And when he breathes, _Am I truly ready for this?_ he is assured,  
  
_You will know only by what you are when it ends._  
  
**vi.**  
  
From afar the Russian SFSR studies the youth as his country crashes off course into a depression, the extravagant roar of the previous decade reduced to the pitiful whimper of a smashed economy, countries reeling in the hungover sickness of excess.  
  
The World blames this fraudulent dandy for their misery, the remains of their pockets now bet instead on changing the coinage of democracies into dictatorships, the new currency of absolute power the only wealth worth mining.  
  
But the Russian SFSR considers that prosperity is but a game of stakes dealt out in a series of advances and retreats—and he thinks perhaps, he knows what ploy this youth will bet his nation upon.

For he is made of hopeful things, this one: belief, the companion of faith, and determination, the ally of glory. If his citizens waver, he steadies them; where they stumble, he corrects their stride. And when they fall he carries them—optimism shining like a candle in his hands, dauntless in the light of success; defiant in the darkness of struggle.   
  
So, this is how it goes between the Russian SFSR and the youth: one exaggerates from between the plotting of his Dictator, purgings, gulags, the genocides of famine oiling the gears of industrious ideology; the appearance of success fueled by suffering, and the youth accepts the exhibition in his own way; gambling on a lottery of new deals, his country chanced on the companionship of fireside chats; radio broadcasting hope through the disrupting static of struggle, parting the strange whispers of unease blown from across the seas.  
  
And when he boasts, _I will neither break nor bow for anyone or anything,_ he is warned,  
  
_The day shall come when you will bend, however._  
  
** vii.**  
  
From afar, Red Russia monitors the teenager when he gallantly appears, over declaration, and under revenge, and between the strategy of alliance: playing dice with the cosmos as he spins the orbit of axis rule out of power, unpinning stars from chests of outcasts—setting the sun from the skies of an empire long past its day.  
  
The World considers this foreign visitor from the West, a nation who molds bosom friends of destruction and reconstruction, a superpower who makes bitter rivals of adversaries and allies.  
  
But Red Russia contemplates that peace is a fickle kingdom to rule for politics is its unstable queen, victory an abdicating king, and countries the sole heirs to contention—and he thinks perhaps, that the triumphant crown a successful war has bequeathed upon this teenager has already been exchanged in search of another.  
  
For he is made of lustful things, this one: ideas, the faulty ammunition of nations, the double edged sword of their histories. Behind charming idealism, his plans are mapped to zealotry, cunning glinting unbarred upon his atomic blade. His aim is strategic, his weapons at the ready—he is a hunter waiting in search of his prey, he is a warrior poised in search of a war.  
  
So, this is how it goes between Red Russia and the teenager: one provokes from between his Generals, the trail of footsteps leading the East to victory veiled in red, the ink of threat scribbled amidst diplomacy, and the other accepts the goading in his own way; political debris residing between his friendly handshakes and forceful help, promises forecasting squalls in the cloudy skies of victory, the short season of calm already blown over by the rising storm of conflict.  
  
And when he proclaims, _I will challenge you in every way,_ he is approved,  
  
_ And I, you._  
  
** viii.**  
  
From afar, the Soviet Union spies on the young man as he gathers his army, the dichotomous infantry line of an arms race maiming the earth with iron curtains, and blinding history with cataracts shaped like moons.  
  
The World shivers in this cold theater of war as it watches this starring actor undertake the role of ringmaster as he shuffles them on either side of the global circus, their governments manufactured into a painted cast of performances, foreign affairs the background scenery of every stage.  
  
But the Soviet Union examines the fact that in the lifetime of a country, the expression of power never dies, it simply changes faces—and he thinks perhaps, that the mask this young man seeks to claim is one constantly traded between them both.  
  
For he is made of greedy things, this one: to sate his hunger, he has stolen the fire of the gods: struck the match, and stoked the blaze to consume the stars. Long has he favored a pastime of playing with flame, and if the world burns at the stake in the process of this game—so be it, then. Triumph demands sacrifice, and countries are the industry of war—but a Pyrrhic victory is still a victory, no matter the cost.  
  
So, this is how it goes between the Soviet Union and the young man: one taunts from between the shadow of his Premiers, the pact of alliance crafted of borrowed peoples, stolen countries; indoctrination of a bloodstained creed opening the bottled dams of uprising in all places, and the other accepts the gibes in his own way; towing his nation behind him as he blazes its politics through countries—juggling wars and weapons, control and consequence—balancing upon the perilous tightrope stretched taut between attaining everything and nothing at all.  
  
And when he rages,_ Look at what you've made me become!_ he is informed,  
  
_Nothing more than what you had already become on your own._  
  
**ix.**  
  
From afar, the USSR waits for the other at the end of all things, dissolution shifting like sand through the hourglass of politics, forty-five years now little more than a graveyard of time—the pastimes of two empires reduced to the fine print of ghosts, a future already haunted by the past.  
  
The World molds itself anew from the directions of this artist, its chisel found in the persistent chipping of revolt, the figure of a new sculpture breathed unto life from death.  
  
But the USSR concedes that in the end for all their efforts, countries are simply passing things, scribbled into being by ideas and autographed by the will of history, the sharp ink of their stories rising and falling with the pulse of time—and he thinks perhaps, that he knows the name of the story that is both the other's and his own.  
  
For he is made of lonely things, this one: dirt made flesh, flesh made nation—nation made empire. He has trampled over the footsteps of those who came before him, he has gone farther than they ever have. But now there is nowhere left to run, and only himself left to race. So perhaps in curiosity, in atonement; perhaps still, in grief—he pauses. For like them all, he is but a creature of habit, and because that is all they ever will be, for this is all they have ever known—after the end, they begin again.  
  
So, this is how it goes between the USSR and the other: one weakens from the initiative policies of his Leader, the rusting mechanics of a diseased system corroding the internal workings of himself; anarchy, a contagious sickness, spreading in grassroots to the terminal stage of defeat, and the other accepts the collapse in his own way; catching the remains of an era in the familiar net of détente, less of an armistice and more of a reflex nowadays, for that strange drum-line of circumstance, the heartbeat of their kind—is but a rhythmic custom that has marched before them, and above them, and will continue to do so long after they are gone.  
  
And when he murmurs, _What is it, have we gained?_ he is answered,  
  
_ What is it, have we lost?_  
  
** x.**  
  
From nearby, the United States of America recognizes the conception of a new country; the earth constricts beneath the governments, and the heavens expand over the stars, and history sets its clock to a marked hour, waiting to time the era of another age.  
  
The World listens for the sound of footsteps that have yet to be, remaining in their corners to watch the sun run its familiar course, chasing the days of possibility that remember to spark the flames of the new world with the embers of the old.  
  
But the United States of America anticipates the map of stars and skies the wind is churning over to brand new constellations, soon to carry a foreign heartbeat from the East on its wings to pound like a cavalcade of supernovas across the miles—and he thinks perhaps, that this new country will hold the world in his bones.  
  
For he will be made of contradictory things, this one: kind summers born of foreign winds, cruel winters built of familiar storms. Land skinned white and grey, pale and bold—people much the same. Both conniving and simple, gentle and fierce; he will have starlight in his hair, and shadows in his blood.  
  
So, this is how it goes between the United States of America and the new country: one searches from between the far reaching endeavors of his President, the Western expeditions of an empire claiming their share of relations on a nation that is destined to be, and the other accepts the offer in his own way, rising out from rubble of legend and myth to be minted to the shifting currency of papers and politics, a patchwork world which builds the future over the past.  
  
And when he dreams,_ What shall I become?_ he is promised,  
  
_ Everything, and all at once. _


End file.
